


still undone, not quite young

by gearyoak



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Love Confessions, M/M, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:28:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28060161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gearyoak/pseuds/gearyoak
Summary: He sure as shit wasn’t about to cry over this. Not about to act like it’s never happened before.But never again. He told himself that the moment he heard the front door slam behind his father, promised himself that. Once he was able to pick himself up off the floor, minutes or hours later, he drug all the shit he cared about out from their hiding places around his room. Collectively, it filled two bags. The rest - fuck it. His dad could sell it at a pawn shop for all he cared. Throw it in the dump, the quarry, shove it into storage. Fuck it.So no, Billy wasn’t going to scream or cry. He was way passed shit like that.He was going to drink instead.Because fuck his dad. Fuck Neil Hargrove. Fuck this shitty little podunk town he dragged them to as a fucking punishment. Fuck Hawkins and fuck everything in it.Except -Shit, except.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 22
Kudos: 157





	still undone, not quite young

**Author's Note:**

> hey gang. bet u thot u saw the last of me huh
> 
> anywho started up prompts again so u kno what that means :^) 
> 
> this is my first st fic and i feel like i have absolutely zero grasp on these characters. they're probably horribly ooc and i prolly projected so mmuch on billy but im just vibin. 
> 
> didn't really know what to tag this as, so if you see anything u want tagged, lmk 
> 
> good lcuk

Billy’s chest ached. The blood in between his ribs and skin pulsed like it was trying to kill him. His lungs burned from the two-thirds of a pack he’d chain smoked in a little over an hour. A swipe of his wrist under his nose told him it wasn’t bleeding anymore but it still stung to even touch it. 

The quarry was quiet below him. Sometimes wind gusted up from the rock face but nothing was too cold this time of year, even in this shit hole of a town. The silence nagged at him. It made him want to scream. His voice was hoarse enough already from the cigs - and besides, if he started there was the chance he wasn’t going to stop. Not unless someone stopped him or his throat gave out or until he drowned from the wetness in his eyes. He sure as shit wasn’t about to _cry_ over this. Not about to act like it’s never happened before.

But never again. He told himself that the moment he heard the front door slam behind his father, promised himself that. Once he was able to pick himself up off the floor, minutes or hours later, he drug all the shit he cared about out from their hiding places around his room. Collectively, it filled two bags. The rest - fuck it. His dad could sell it at a pawn shop for all he cared. Throw it in the dump, the quarry, shove it into storage. _Fuck_ it. 

So no, Billy wasn’t going to scream or cry. He was way passed shit like that. 

He was going to drink instead.

Because fuck his dad. Fuck Neil Hargrove. Fuck this shitty little podunk town he dragged them to as a fucking punishment. Fuck Hawkins and fuck everything in it.

Except - 

Shit, _except._

Blearily, he looked to the left as if he were expecting another car to be parked beside him. He’d left enough room for one out of habit. Too used to only showing up here in the middle of the woods after following someone else’s brakelights. After brushing shoulders and being whispered _“meet you at our spot?”_ Used to sharing the space, sitting on someone else’s hood, passing the bottle in his hand to them, blowing smoke in their eyes just to hear them bitch. 

Billy raised his arm, focused his vision to catch the time on his watch. 8:37. Everyone should still be at the school. 

He stood but didn’t move. Kept staring out across the open space to the trees on the other side. It almost seemed stupid that he’d forgotten about prom until just then. There was some forgiveness to be given, sure, it wasn’t technically _his_ prom. But it was Harrington’s, and he’d been talking about it during their one shared class that day, joked about how he was going to make Billy his plus one so he could get him in. 

Billy’d laughed with him, made himself roll his eyes at the idea, but once the class was over he made sure to disappear because that shit - 

Billy can’t just joke about shit like that for too long. 

After another long moment he glanced over his shoulder at the duffels sitting in his backseat. He was leaving, back to Cali or somewhere that had miles between him and Neil Hargrove, and was he really planning on ditching when the last thing Harrington had ever said to him was _“see you tonight, Hargrove”?_

He imagined the other finally bailing on the shitty dance, coming by the quarry, because it would be the first place he checked, and finding the spot on the right empty. He’d probably take the long way back to Loch Nora so he could drive down Cherry Lane and see if he’d spot the Camaro parked in front of the Hargrove-Mayfield house. Billy wondered what Harrington’s face would be like when he found that he couldn’t, when he’d pull up to his own house to a similarly empty driveway. There’s not many places Billy would be in a small town like this. He wondered if Harrington would worry. 

But then he’s wondering if he’d even leave prom by himself. Now Billy’s wondering if Harrington left with some girl on his arm and he’s already home, tipsy and giggling along with the her in his bed. 

He was back to wanting to scream again. He didn’t know which scenario was worse. He didn’t know which one embarrassed him more. He swore and dropped the bottle of dogshit whiskey he’d snagged, letting it hit the gravel. Got into his car, slammed the door shut, and peeled out fast. Whipping around as if he wasn’t on the precipice of an easy four-storey drop. 

Billy wasn’t thinking when he got back on the road. Didn’t really let himself. Because fuck everything about this god awful town, but, shit, man. 

Harrington was alright. 

-

The parking lot was half full by the time he pulled up. Nobody was left outside. Not even any of the teachers playing chaperones. Still, just to be safe, he parked off by the side. Walked around to where the backdoor was already being held open by Richie Delatou, cheering on another kid Billy couldn’t see. He was crouched, half fallen onto the brick wall, puke spilling down the front of his pressed tux. 

Billy made sure to scoff loudly when he shouldered passed them. 

He hardly recognized the gymnasium. The lights had been dimmed down to almost nothing, a carpet rolled out to cover the waxed, wood floor. Passed the couples pressed together on the cramped space of the dance floor were tables draped in milky white tablecloth, seating six people around a cluster of candles tastefully melted to different heights. Cyndi Lauper crooning from the intercom’s speakers. 

It smelled like hairspray, of expensive fabric, of dry cleaning. Perfume, makeup, cologne. It was a lot, too much for Billy’s drunk-sensitive senses. He almost immediately wanted to turn around. Especially now that eyes were on him, because he was not meant to be here. A Junior at a senior prom in a leather jacket and jeans. He still got smiles, though. Excited grins from guys he knew from basketball. Batted eyelashes from girls who had to settle for their dates. 

Billy straightened his features before they could curdle from the distaste. He moved forward, into the crowd and away from the doors. Putting himself inside rather than on the out. A teacher caught a whiff of him he’d be thrown out for sure and he still hasn’t seen Harrington. 

The further he got in, the more hushed word spread. Someone clapped him on the shoulder, pushed a clear plastic cup into his hand. He played it up, downed it and it burned but he pretended it didn’t. The guy and his buddy laughed and Billy wracked his brain to see if he knew who any of them were. 

He let them talk to him, eyes never staying on them or anyone else for very long, until someone else approached them - not a teacher. Tommy. Thank fucking christ.

“Hargrove, man,” he said when he got close enough. Billy had liked Tommy, on a surface level. Smarter than most of the other kids around here, but that wasn’t saying much. It was still saying _something,_ though. “Who the fuck let you in?” 

Billy scoffed again, tongue swiping along the line of his teeth when he grinned. “Myself, man. Who the fuck else?” 

“Figures,” Tommy laughed. The freckles across his nose were barely visible from the buzz he was obviously feeling. Whoever spiked the punch had a heavy hand. “Harrington left, like, an hour ago.” 

Shock was an ice cold pick between his ribs. Lucky he spent so many years hiding shit, he was sure it didn’t show on his face. He quelled the incessant chant of _does he know, does he know, does he know_ by asking, “And?”

Tommy shrugged. “Nothin’, I guess. Was just lookin’ for you, s’all. I think he forgot you weren’t a senior.” He cackled then, nudging Billy like he was trying to get him to join in. “Fuckin’ dumbass, right?” 

Typically, Billy would be hard pressed to agree with the likes of Tommy fucking H, but at this point? Yeah, Harrington was a dumbass, but so was Billy. 

_Fuck._

Tommy’s expression sobered up all of a sudden, and it didn’t seem to be because Billy wasn’t laughing with him. “Oh shit,” he hissed, squaring his shoulders, “act cool, man.” 

“Mister Hargrove.” Mrs. Flemings approached them, kids parting around her. Billy barely remembered to smile at her. By the way her eyes narrowed, she probably could tell his heart wasn’t even in it. “I don’t remember seeing you at the admissions desk this evening.”

“Because you didn’t,” he admitted, tone light. “But I was leaving. Just owed Hagan a fiver.” Billy handed the plastic cup back to the kid who’d first given it to him so he could fish around in his pocket for the bill he’d stuffed in there earlier. When he held it out, Tommy didn’t even hesitate to take it. Billy really didn't want to let it go. He’d been hoping to break it later and get another pack of smokes once he got out of town. 

Mrs. Flemings crossed her arms. “That couldn’t’ve waited until after prom?” 

“‘Fraid not.” He looked her over quick, snatched the first thing he noticed and said, “Dig the dress, ma’am. Purple’s a nice color.” 

The corner of her stern-lined mouth twitched. “Leave, Mister Hargrove. I won’t ask a second time.” 

Billy smiled at her. “You won’t have to.” 

“Later, Hargrove,” Tommy called at his back.

He didn’t respond, kept walking.

-

He didn’t bother with the quarry again. He drove right for Loch Nora, for the massive house in the middle of the street, pulled into the driveway, got out, and stared up at the dark windows. It was a telltale sign that Harrington wasn’t around. Billy looked at the windows before he even checked to see if the Beemer was in the drive. Harrington never even _slept_ without half the lights on in the house. 

He wasn’t home. Billy took a few steps forward as if he needed the proximity for it to sink it. 

Harrington wasn’t home. 

He left his shitty little prom early but he hadn’t come home. Billy felt stupid all of a sudden. Because, no shit, right? No shit, he wasn’t going to be waiting for Billy fucking Hargrove of all people. He wasn’t going to look for someone like Billy. No one would, not in this shit town. It’s why he was leaving. Getting in his Camaro and driving until he hit Cali, or, hell, maybe he’d keep going. Maybe he’d drive until the fucking car gave out and he’d hole up wherever he landed. Start over with new people who weren’t like his friends on the west coast or the fake fucks that littered small town USA or people who didn’t have brown eyes that belonged to a cartoon puppy or smiles that showed too much of their hearts or said shit like _“meet you at our spot?”._ And then eventually, even _they’d_ find out that he’s not worth shit, but maybe the next time around he’d know the signs. Maybe Billy’ll see it coming next time and he’d already be packed. Already ready to go.

Billy’s eyes were still up on the house when cocked his head to the side, spitting out the sour taste of booze and _emotion_ from his mouth. This was a fucking bad idea. And, to be honest, it wasn’t even an _idea._ He hadn’t had a plan when he stormed out of the gym. Was just an amalgamation of horrible thoughts - because now he’s wishing he would’ve asked Tommy if Harrington’d left with someone. If he had a girl under his arm, because that would make Billy wanting to see him one last time really awkward - for everyone.

And didn’t that defeat the purpose of everything anyway? Because - _because,_ he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about that. Billy had learned a long time ago that there’s just shit you don’t show anyone, not even to yourself. You fold it away like a nasty, raggedy-ass blanket and stuff it into the depths of a closet hidden deep inside your brain and you tell it to fuck off every time you hear it screaming behind a closed door. 

There’s just shit you don’t do. It’s something you learn. Billy learned it, had to relearn it if his bruised ribs and blood-crusted nose was anything to go by. 

So he’s leaving. He’s checking the lock in his brain and he’s gonna get the fuck out of dodge. Away from the people who try to break in.

And then the Beemer pulled up. 

And then the _Beemer_ pulled up. 

It parked right behind the Camaro and the headlights are on high beam so Billy can’t see Harrington until he’s climbing out of his car, leaving the keys in the ignition, car running. Like he was in a hurry or - 

Billy’s throat went dry. Harrington’s still dressed to the nines; he ditched the jacket to his tux at some point but his shirt’s still tucked and his tie is loosened but not undone. Billy’s got enough wherewithal to think _this fucking sucks_ before Harrington’s close enough to throw his hands in the air, all irritated.

_“There_ you are, fuck, man.” Harrington stopped in front of him, barely two feet between them. Hands on his hips like Billy’s one of the little shitheads he’d been herding around for the last half of the school year. “Where the hell have you been?”

He opened his mouth but Billy can’t find the words to say anything. _This fucking sucks,_ he’s still thinking, because leaving Harrington high and dry, without a word, it seemed like a shitty thing to do. Felt so fucking guilty over the thought of him not knowing what the hell had happened. Felt so torn up at the thought that he’d have to live with the _something_ inside of him screaming to get out, forever, for the rest of fucking time.

But now he’s thinking about what it would be like to leave with Harrington hating him. Leaving with the last face Harrington made at him being one of disgust - disappointment, hatred, resentment. He’d be ruining a good thing, honestly. Saying shit he shouldn’t say. Well, he’d be ruining a good thing no matter how he left this. It’s just, now, he’s struck with the decision of _how_ he wanted to ruin it and it’s got his chest seizing. 

Harrington got uneasy in the silence, head cocking to the side and once again Billy is reminded of a puppy. He went, “Hargrove? You good?” And Billy felt the way the other’s eyes trailed over his face, watched them when they did. “What happened?” 

Whatever thing that’s red and hot and lived inside of Billy reared its head, fuming. It wanted to spit and swear at Harrington, but probably Billy, too. It was _his_ fault, after all, that Harrington got to know him well enough to just lay eyes on him and _tell_ that there was something. Maybe the door wasn’t shut as tight as he’d thought. Maybe it’d been leaking from the cracks. 

“If any of your little shits fuck with Max,” is what he said, finally, after a little too long, “I’ll kill them. They’re fucking dead, Harrington.” 

Harrington’s brow furrowed, mouth popping open to purse into an _“o”_ shape. “What? What happened?” Then, his eyes flicked over to the Camaro, searching for Max in the passenger seat, probably, but seeing the packed duffels in the back instead. “Okay, _what’s_ happening?”

“Just say it,” Billy snapped, making his voice come out rough, like he’s _mad._ “Just say you’ll watch her for me.” 

But Harrington’s shaking his head. He’s taking a step closer, but there’s still the world between them. This fucking town, Hawkins, between them, Neil Hargrove, Billy’s incessant inability to stay away even though he can never quite manage getting close enough. “You’re leaving,” he said and it’s not so much of a question as it is an accusation and that -

Well. Billy wasn’t really expecting _that,_ that hint of anger. Confusion and disbelief, he was ready for. Not this, and that red thing in him is hissing like it’s content, like it’s telling him _make him hate you,_ because that seemed like an easier way to leave. 

“You catch on quick,” Billy replied, keeping that bite in his voice.

_“Why?”_ Harrington was quick to ask. “To where, even? Do you even have anywhere to fucking go?”

“That’s not your goddamn problem now, is it?” _Make him hate you, make him hate you_ \- Still, Billy cut his gaze away from the other’s face. He didn’t want to see the hurt; it was easy to say shit, yeah, but he’s never been one for dealing with consequences if he didn’t have to. 

He heard Harrington huff. “That’s not fucking fair.” 

Billy barked out a laugh, high pitched and sharp as glass. “You’re so fucking _spoiled,_ you know that?” Laughed again, then mocked, _“That’s not fucking fair.”_

“You’re such a dick,” Harrington told him, still angry but it’s strangled, so Billy kept his eyes away. “Why’d you come here then? Just to be an asshole? Just to rub it in? What, man?” 

_Because,_ Billy’s thinking, _my dad takes everything from me but I didn’t want him to take this, because sometimes I just want to see you, because I’m leaving before it kills me and I’m gonna miss you like crazy._

Again, Billy opened his mouth but didn’t say anything.

Harrington made a noise in his throat, hand coming down on Billy’s shoulder and feeling heavy. And then he said, “Billy,” and it’s like a physical blow, reeling him back enough to shrug off Harrington’s touch.

“I shouldn’t’ve come here,” he’s telling him, _himself,_ for the millionth time tonight. 

When he’s turning, he was able to catch sight of the other’s expression, because he’s a martyr, and looked when he didn’t mean or really want to. Harrington’s eyes were big and he’s like an open book, too, so Billy already knew what he was going to sound like when he said, “Don’t go, man.” 

He’s in his room back in Cali, all of a sudden, the one deep inside the city, high up in the apartment building, eleven years old and whispering, _when are you coming back?_ into a phone receiver. Begging _please don’t go._

“Harrington,” he choked.

_“Billy,”_ Harrington responded insistently, grabbing him again and _making_ him look. “I can’t do it, man. If you - “ And then he swallowed, throat moving. 

_Say it,_ Billy felt like yelling. “What?” He goaded instead, like he was irritated, couldn’t care less.

“I don’t think I can handle you being like everyone else,” Harrington admitted, voice shredded with reluctant honesty, desperation. “Okay? I’m fucking selfish, I don’t want you to fucking leave. I can’t handle someone else bailing on me, it - I’ll - “

He took a step back, half turning away so the shaky, hysterical sigh he let out rushed across nothing but the empty fine-cut lawn. Billy let him make space between them, realizing that _make him hate you_ now sounded a lot like _make him think you hate him._ Maybe it was the same thing.

“Harrington,” he heard himself saying, saw the way the other frowned, then said, “Steve.”

“What?” He’s asking, the question all busted, crossing his arms over his chest like he's going to need protection. 

“It’s my dad,” Billy said. He shoved his hands in his pockets, hoping he came off indifferent even though he should know better. “I just - I can’t stay there anymore. I just have to go.” _It’s not that I want to leave, I don’t. He’s just gonna kill me if I stay._

The thing is, Harrington - _Steve_ wasn’t stupid. They didn’t talk about it, Billy never brought it up and Steve never asked, but he knew about Neil Hargrove. Billy could see it in the way Steve’s mouth would twist sometimes in the locker room, eyeing bruises shaped like bootprints. How he would work to hold one-sided conversations when Billy showed up at the Harringtons’ house or the quarry early, shaky and quiet.

So Steve knew what Billy meant when he said that. He heard everything he couldn’t say out loud. Understood that this shit was hopeless, because he closed his eyes and rubbed at them, sighing again. 

Billy didn’t say sorry. _Sorry_ was just an admittance which typically got him into more trouble. He usually just took the punishment his actions got him, which is why he stared hard at the way Steve’s features slowly crumbled. When he let his hands drop again, his big, brown, cartoon-dog eyes were wet and red-rimmed. 

“Why did you come here?” He asked him again. 

Billy’s hands were still in his pocket, but his hands were clenched so tight when he shrugged and said, “I love you.” 

He got the words out and then moved immediately, back to the car and reaching for the driver’s side door. Harrington must have moved with him, because he’s next to Billy, slamming the door shut as soon as Billy got it open. He didn’t flinch at the sudden movement or the loud noise, but it was a very close thing. 

“Stay with me,” Steve was saying and Billy ripped his gaze away from the roof of his car to stare at him, wide-eyed. Steve mirrored it, at first, just as wide-eyed at his own words. But he recovered, or was used to making shit up as he went, or _something_. He was going, “I - we can talk to Hopper, or something, he’s buddies with that secret lab guy, they forged paperwork or whatever - maybe they can do something? Just like they did for El, make him your foster dad and - “

“Steve,” Billy tried.

“Just - stay with me? Let me help, man, I - “ He bit his lip, worrying it with his teeth for a moment before he’s reaching up. Putting Billy’s face in his hands, one on his cheek, the other along his jaw, leaning forward and pressing his mouth to Billy’s.

It’s quick, barely even a kiss, so Billy grit out a, “Fuck,” when Steve leaned away before he grabbed him by his stupid fancy dress shirt, gathering the fabric by his shoulder and pulling him back in. Made sure there wasn’t any space between them when they kissed again, falling back and letting his car hold both their weight. 

One of Steve’s hands moved, slid from his jaw to palm at the nape of his neck and kept going. Threaded into blond curls, through them, then back to do it over again with intent, like maybe he’d been thinking about doing it, wanting to do it. The idea punched a noise out from Billy’s chest and he opened his mouth, parted his lips and tilted his head. Pulled at Steve’s shirt until half of it came untucked from his pants then got his fingers on skin, rubbed at Steve’s hipbone, trying _anything_ to kill Steve like he was killing Billy. 

And it worked, because he was pulling away again, breathes coming out soft and pitched like whines, dropping his head until it landed on Billy’s shoulder. He didn’t step back, though, so Billy kept his arms around him; one down low against the small of his back, keeping him close. Stomachs flat against one another. Chests pressing their heartbeats into their skin. 

“Stay,” Steve’s begging again, hot and wet against Billy’s neck. “Stay with me.” _Don’t go, when are you coming back, please don’t go._

And that was the bottom line, wasn’t it? The end all be all? Because at the end of the day, they’re just kids. A kid haunted by the ghost of a mother who wasn’t even dead, just gone, haunted by the shadow of his father who’d rip him from this town the very second he got a bad feeling. A kid in a big empty house in a town with people he can’t seem to get to stay. Kids tormented by government labs, hunted by monsters. 

They shouldn’t have to be _doing_ this. They’re eighteen. Everyday shouldn’t be life or death.

Billy turned until his nose was met with thick, brown hair. He closed his eyes and breathed him in. Said, “I need a fuckin’ smoke.”

**Author's Note:**

> u made it!!!! sorry!!!!!!!!


End file.
